


i wanna see your animal side

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Fluff and Angst, Kittens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets attached to a dark-haired, blue-eyed kitten. He hates cats, so he can't really say why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanna see your animal side

Dean knows it’s going to be an unfortunate sort of day when the first thing out of his mouth is, “Freaking _witches._ ”

“Freaking witches,” Sam agrees grimly, tapping his fingers on the platform of his laptop and narrowing his eyes. “Well, that’s two hexed so far and inevitably another one by the end of the week, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “The creepy fucks like to work in threes. Remind me what the hexes were? One got turned into a…?”

“Frog,” Sam supplies. “The other just vanished.”

Dean frowns, leaning back in the motel chair and crossing his arms. That’s definitely a new one.

“So what’s the plan of attack?” Cas asks from where he’s sprawled across the motel bed gazing blankly up at the ceiling. “Strike now, I assume.”

Sam and Dean exchange cautious, questioning looks at this before Sam says, with a quiet clearing of his throat, “Actually, I think we should take some more time to form a game-plan.”

Cas sits straight up, his brows already knitting into a disapproving frown. “And allow this witch to attack other people while we wait? We have the advantage, the element of surprise. We know the location, am I wrong?”

“No, you’re right.” Sam shifts uncomfortably, his long fingers picking at the dewy label on his beer bottle. “We think she’s staying temporarily in the Woodwork Apartment Complex, down on 39th Street and Watson. But Cas, she might already know we’re here; she probably does. We should wait until we’ve got a foolproof plan to take her out.”

Cas frowns and folds his hands in his lap, like a child waiting to be chastised. “I don’t know if I can sit by for that, Sam. Not when more people will be hurt.”

“Are we gonna talk about this, Cas?” Dean says, a little more sharply than he intended, and he knows he’s nailed something when Cas’s body gives a small jerk in response to the question.

“Talk about what?” Cas replies with practiced confusion, a faux little fold in his brow as he gazes at Dean in wide-eyed inquiry.

“You know _what,_ ” Dean says, feeling the tick in his jaw. “Your obsession with rescuing people from the jaws of death. It’s been going on for weeks.” Ever since Cas fell, actually.

“And you _don’t_ desire to save people?” Cas retaliates, but it’s a weak defense and Dean sees right through it, glass on paper.

“No, no, don’t spin this on me. This is a punishment thing, isn’t it?” Dean asks, voicing the suspicion he’s held quiet for days now. “You feel you’ve got to do some kind of penance for fucking up again.”

Cas flinches and swallows, the dry click of his Adam’s apple the only sound in the room, and Dean almost feels bad at his tangible discomfort. Almost.

Cas toys with the hem of his borrowed flannel shirt, dropping his gaze. “I may feel a stronger urge to save others from harm due to the past injury I’ve caused, yes. I don’t see fault in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says skeptically. “Yeah, that’s right, it’s all noble and great until you get yourself _killed_.”

Cas’s bright eyes snap up to meet and hold Dean’s gaze with unsettling tenacity. “I don’t need you _monitoring_ me, Dean. I’m an adult and considerably older than you, I’d like to add.”

“Yeah, but this is your first month on the job, and I know a little something about hunting, Cas,” Dean retorts, leaning forward in his seat to meet Cas’ challenge head on. “And by a little I mean a lot. And you know, I get it. You feel the more people you can save the more you can make up for the shit you’ve screwed up. But trust me just this once, Cas. It’s dangerous. I learned that the hard way.”

“I don’t need advice from you, Dean,” Cas says coldly, and Dean notices Sam turn subtly to gauge his reaction.

Dean smiles placidly, almost unpleasantly, to conceal the sting that accompanies these words. “Alright, Cas, fuck you then. Go find out for yourself and completely disregard everything I just said. Because, right, you don’t need me _monitoring_ you.”

“Dean,” Sam says in a quiet reprimand, but Cas jolts up from the bed and balls his fists, narrowing his eyes in acknowledgment to the challenge.

“Fine,” Cas says through gritted teeth. “I’ll head over there early, you boys follow after once you have a _game plan._ Hopefully that’ll be before more innocent people get killed.”

That was a low blow and they all know it—even Sam starts a little at the slight—but Cas is already stalking toward the door despite Dean’s, “Cas, would you just _stop_ and think for like _two fucking seconds—_ “ and he’s gone, an air of cheap hotel shampoo and self-righteousness in his wake.

“Arrogant dick,” Dean growls, shoving up from the table. “How the hell is he going to get there, anyway? It’s not like he can drive.”

“Dean, you know, Cas is responsible for his own choices,” Sam says, attempting to take the neutral ground. “We should give him like a day or two to work it out of his system.”

Dean nods once, contemplative. “You think he’s bluffing too?”

“Of course he is,” Sam says with an incredulous lift of his eyebrows. “You think Cas is really stupid enough to charge in there unarmed, barely knowing the location, without some sort of plan? He probably just went to get a drink or something. He’ll be back once he blows off some steam.”

Dean nods again, ignoring the uncoiling tension in his chest that feels suspiciously like relief.

“Take a little pity on him, Dean,” Sam says, bending to shove his laptop into his Jansport (incredibly geeky) backpack. “He probably feels a bit claustrophobic. Guy was able to do whatever he wanted for thousands of years and now he’s stuck in a mortal body that eats and shits and sleeps like the rest of us. It’s gotta be taxing.”

“Yeah, I know that. Doesn’t give him an excuse to be a little shit to everyone involved.”

Sam gives a soft huff of laughter. “If I didn’t know you better, Dean, I’d say that’s relief in your voice.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

\---

Castiel takes a cab.

He’s never taken a taxi before, and he’s never seen the Winchesters take one either, but he knows practically how they work; payment at the end with the crumpled bills in his jeans pockets, and don’t attempt to engage the driver in conversation.

“Where to?” the driver asks gruffly when they pull away from the curb.

“Woodwork Apartment Complex,” Castiel answers.

The driver grunts in affirmation.

It’s not like Castiel actually plans to attack the witch, not without the Winchesters’ backup or at least a weapon. He just plans to check the perimeters; all the attacks so far have occurred during the daytime, so he assumes that she’ll be out of the apartment for at least a few hours and will return by nightfall. That gives him time to check the surroundings and then, once he’s feeling less irritated, report to the Winchesters his findings.

He knows, in retrospect, that Dean was merely trying to help, or maybe even express his concern. Castiel finds himself overreacting to things more and more as his mortality stretches on, governed helplessly by his human emotions, at the mercy of his hormones. He abhors that particular weakness, letting a body that isn’t his dictate his pain, his mood, his hunger, his arousal. It feels a bit like being trapped on a ship on a wild sea. He sometimes wishes he could sleep the days away just to avoid being awake, conscious of what he is, the mistakes he can’t make up for, the sheer helplessness of his situation.

Castiel wonders if this is how the Winchesters feel on most days. Worthless, helpless, driven to the point of wild stupidity.

Maybe, Castiel thinks, if I can just save this one. Whoever the witch’s next victim is. If I can just.

_If I can just._

It’s the four words that seem to take up the most space in his head these days.

“We’re here,” the cab driver says, tugging Castiel back into the land of the living, and Castiel shoves a fistful of bills through the window slot and opens it will suffice for the tip. He realizes after the cab pulls away that he now has no money to get back to the motel.

His cell-phone, as rarely utilized as it is, still has a bit of battery; maybe he can call Dean once or if he swallows his pride.

Castiel shakes his head and turns to appraise the apartment building in front of him. It’s rustic, what some humans would call “quaint”; faded brick, soft white windowpanes, a dark wooden front door. An oak tree sprouts from the apartment’s small yard, the branches twisting up and tapping against the fourth floor window glass.

Castiel clears the three stone steps leading to the door and after a moment of search, presses the intercom button.

A voice crackles over the speaker. “Uh, yeah?”

“Hello,” Castiel says. “I’m here to see a Dorma Grayson.”

“Whatever, dude, door’s unlocked.”

Castiel pushes the door open and barely has time to take note of his surroundings when someone grabs him roughly around the neck so that he chokes, loud and shocked; his assailant brings a sharp knee to his groin and Castiel collapses into a crumpled kneeling position, wheezing, his pulse a thunderstorm in his ears.

“Well, well,” a woman says in a simpering voice from above him. “It looks like we have visitors, don’t we, Pookie?”

There’s an affirming, grisly growl that doesn’t sound promising.

Castiel shoots to his feet, jagging sideways a bit as he stumbles, and the woman pincers sharp fingernails around his earlobe and yanks hard enough for a white starburst of paint to erupt behind his eyes.

“Won’t you come in,” the woman says in nearly a snarl, and drags Castiel into the nearest apartment room.

“You are Dorma, I assume,” Castiel says through gasps as the woman slams the door behind them and shoves him against the wall.

“You would assume correctly,” the woman says and flashes her teeth, shark-like. She has cropped blond hair, streaked with red, and her emerald eyes seem to glint with malice. Behind her, Castiel notices a bit dazedly, is a large Bloodhound, intelligent dark eyes tracking him predatorily.

“I didn’t come to attack you,” Castiel wheezes as the witch presses down on his windpipe tight enough for a pulse to resonate in his skull.

“Oh, _right,_ ” the witch snaps, “you were just the bait so those two Winchester numbskulls can follow you up and roast me alive. You think I don’t know the drill with good old Sammy and Dean? Yeah, I don’t _think_ so, angel cupcake.”

“So what will you do to me?” Castiel asks, and the witch releases the pressure on his throat so he can at least suck in a rattling, unsteady breath. “Will you kill me?” He once again despises his infutile human strength; he could once dispatch this hellspawn with a quick flick of his wrist. Now here he is, pinned against a wall by his throat and not able to even lift a finger under her power.

“How does it feel?” the witch asks with a gleeful curl of her lip, as if reading his thoughts. “Being _human?_ Rutting in the mud with all those filthy _monkeys_? That must smart a bit, mm, being subjected to a race you once wouldn’t even spit on.”

Castiel doesn’t bother to amend that he’s never held humans in such a distasteful regard; he grapples at the witch’s thin wrists to no avail.

“You’re the Winchesters’ little _pet,_ aren’t you? They’ve got you on a leash, hmm?” She presses herself against him, a hard, taut line against his body. “Not a short enough one, I think.”

Castiel chokes again as the witch’s nails dig into his windpipe, leaving small crescents of welling blood on his skin.

“They don’t even know you’re here,” the witch breathes in realization. “They didn’t think you had the balls. But you, you’re _aching_ to prove yourself to them now that you’re mortal and weak and _useless_.”

Castiel doesn’t react to any of her words, not visibly anyway, but the witch seems to be more intuitive than most because she seems to know she hit the mark.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Redeeming yourself, trying to shrug off the shame of being human.” The witch throws her head back and laughs nasally; the Bloodhound grumbles deep in its throat too, as if in amusement. “That’s rich, given what I’ve got in store for you, pet.”

“Which is?” Castiel gasps, buying for time, but the witch smirks as if she knows he’s stalling.

“Neither of your boyfriends is galloping to your rescue this time, Castiel. You’re well on your own. Now…” Her voice is sickly sweet, sugary as candy poison as his vision darkens and his struggles against her grow feeble. “ Just lie back and think of heaven…”

\---

Dean’s pacing. Sam’s exasperated.

“Dean, there’s no way Cas took off to get her without us, no matter _how_ pissed he was at you. He’s like a billion-year-old warrior; he’s got more instinct than that, I’d think.”

“No, that’s _exactly_ the kind of thing Cas would do,” Dean says through a tight jaw, jamming his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to fiddle with something, anything. “He’s like hell-bent on proving himself, or punishing himself, or something. Jesus Christ.”

“Let’s just calm down for a minute,” Sam says, his voice soothing, “I’m sure Cas is fine wherever he is, Dean, alright?”

“No,” Dean says, halting in his tracks and jiggling his hand on his thigh. “No, Sam, I’ve got a bad feeling. It’s ten o’clock; he left at noon. No way in hell would he still be out if something weren’t wrong.”

Sam’s eyes widen and shadow Dean’s movements as he kicks up a slow pace again. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing hard, “yeah, I do, Sam. I think he’s in trouble somewhere.”

“Alright, then,” Sam says, reaching for his jacket and slamming his laptop shut. “If you’re sure, what are we waiting for?”

It’s a long, tense drive to the witch’s apartment; Dean’s got his hands clenched firmly on the wheel, and Sam’s put on some music to help ease the nerves, but there’s a creeping dread in Dean’s bones that he can’t shake. He knows Cas; not as well as he knows Sam, but he knows Cas better than anyone else does, and there’s something _off_ about this situation. Cas doesn’t “blow off steam” by getting drinks for twelve hours. Sure, Cas sulks with the best of them, but he wouldn’t be gone this long under normal circumstances.

Unless he was in trouble.

They pull to a stop about twenty minutes later and search for signs of life through the lowest corner window where the witch—Doreen? Dora?—is reported to stay. It’s completely dark, only the skeletal shadows of the trees on the whitewashed window panes, so Dean nods sharply at Sam and tucks a gun in his jacket.

It takes all of two seconds to jimmy both pairs of locks—to the apartment building itself, and then the witch’s apartment—and Dean enters first with his gun raised and the adrenaline of the hunt already pumping through his system, hot and sweet and familiar. He feels rather than hears Sam creep in behind him, listens to the familiar, sweaty click of Sam readjusting his grip on the gun.

Dean flicks on the light switch.

The apartment is…barren. The furniture has been stripped, the bookshelves are dusty and empty. The drawers of the nearest cabinet and dresser are all pulled out and devoid of clothes and belongings. Only the window remains open, a soft, rainy breeze whistling through and puffing up the white thin curtain.

“Looks like she packed up and left town,” Sam says, lowering his gun, and Dean mutters a swift “ _fuck”_ under his breath.

“She knew we were coming after her,” Dean mutters, clicking the safety on the gun after another cursory look around the abandoned apartment. “She’s probably known for _days_. Dammit.”

“Uh, Dean?” Sam asks in his “oh shit oh _shit_ ” kind of voice that he reserves for situations in which things…well, fall to shit. “What…um, what is that?”

Dean turns and follows the focus of Sam’s gaze to a pile of abandoned clothes on the floor; a familiar plaid shirt, a rumpled pair of old jeans…

“ _Shit,_ ” Dean says without even realizing why he’s saying it. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Um,” Sam says in an odd voice. “Okay, so those are definitely Cas’. Right?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just crouches down next to the pile of clothes and sifts through them with a stirring and completely unpleasant feeling of foreboding building in his chest like bricks.

“So…what exactly does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, and then attempts a joke with, “Cas got freaky with Sabrina the Teenage Witch?”

“Not funny, Dean.”

“I’m not laughin’,” Dean mutters, standing and staring around the small apartment in growing despair and frustration. “Cas? _Cas!_ ”

“He’s not here, Dean,” Sam says on the trail of a long sigh. “She either took him, or…vaporized him? I actually have no clue.”

“She took him _naked?_ I mean, maybe she’s a kinky bitch, but that doesn’t exactly seem convenient transport to me.”

“I dunno, Dean,” Sam replies with a defeated shrug. “But those are definitely his. Or, ours, I guess. You know what I mean.”

Dean has a sudden, nauseous flash of déjà vu as he scoops the clothes into a gathered heap in his arms and stares down at them. It’s the same as being left with a bloody trenchcoat on the side of a lake, the same as being ditched in a crypt with an aching face and a chipped tooth Cas had failed to heal. It’s the same thing, over and over again; Cas fucking off and leaving him on the sidelines like a freaking military wife.

Why had he expected anything different this time around?

“That _stupid_ sonofabitch,” Dean snaps instead. “What the everloving _fuck_ was he thinking, charging in here alone. That’s like type A novice bullshit.”

“We should get back,” Sam says urgently, casting nervous looks around the room. “Dorma can’t have gotten far. We’ll take turns staying up and checking leads.”

Dean nods, something hard and salty lodged in his throat, and he can’t help himself from looking around the room one last time before he follows Sam out.

\---

            When Castiel had come to, Dorma was gone and he was drowning in a pool of his own clothes.

            The first emotion to grip him was sheer confusion; and for whatever reason, his emotions seemed even more unwarranted, more instinctive than they usually were. He had thrashed, tangling himself up in the plaid fabric, before escaping through the hole of the sleeve—a _sleeve?!_

A sleeve.

Okay, so Dorma had…shrunk him. He’d had worse, he’d thought through the sudden spell of nausea that gripped him; he’d been a plastic figurine once, after all.

Castiel didn’t feel…right. Something felt distinctly _off,_ off balance, off kilter, and not just because everything in the room had multiplied size-wise.

Yes, he felt…strange.

Castiel had taken a step forward; looked down. Stared for a long ten, horrifying seconds because that was most definitely _not_ a tiny paw, not _his_ claws sliding out as if in response to some imminent danger, not _his_ fur prickling up on his spine; and that was certainly not _his_ tail that he’d caught glimpse of after whipping around in a state of sudden panic.

He’d emitted a soft cry of distress; it had squeaked out as a strangled mew.

Castiel had sat back on his haunches; stared at his dark, velvety paws. He slowly lowered his head to the carpet, trying very hard _not_ to think of the fact that Dorma had changed him into a small fluffy kitten. Trying to breathe, which is rasping in short, hissing gasps through his very cat-like mouth.

 _Dean,_ Castiel had thought after a few more moments of floundering disbelief. _I have to find Sam and Dean._

How on earth was he supposed to tell them, though? Or even locate them? He couldn’t catch a cab, not in this humiliating and useless state, and even on the off chance that he found the boys, he couldn’t _tell_ them anything.

For a paralyzing moment, Castiel had wondered if he would be separated from the Winchesters forever. He would grow old, live ten years, die a cat. It seemed, somehow, a horribly fitting finale.

Castiel had glanced around the room; the door was shut and probably locked, and he had no means of opening it anyhow. The window, however, had been left cracked, with a soft vein of wind pushing insistently against the curtain.

Castiel had stumbled over to it, grappling to gain use of his four legs and planting into the carpet more than once, before he came to a halt in front of the window ledge, a towering obstacle that at one point had been below his waist. He’d bunched his back legs, because there was certainly power there, and launched—and had been surprised to land on the windowsill with ease, other than the slight scrabble as he slipped in his balance and dug his claws into the old wood.

 _Freedom,_ Castiel had thought in a moment of trembling relief, lifting his head to feel the cool, wet breeze ruffle his fur, tweaking his whiskers, and yes, Castiel was a cat. He was a cat. Angel, then human, then cat.

He had realized, in a moment of crippling fury and helplessness, that this act was meant not only to punish but mortify; to strip him of any dignity he’d had left, to make him weak and tiny and _helpless_ in the Winchesters’ eyes and in his own. He could only imagine Dean’s face, his smug mirth at the discovery that Castiel had been changed into… _this._

 _No,_ Castiel had thought fiercely. _Dean wouldn’t take pleasure in my discomfort. He’s not sadistic._

He just liked to be right. As did Castiel.

Dean was a good man, but that didn’t mean Castiel didn’t expect to be laughed at and mocked once Dean found out the truth.

Castiel had pushed off the windowsill and landed securely on all four paws—at least _that_ purportion had been true—and headed off in the direction of the motel without any semblance of a plan in mind. His only option was to walk back, although that would take ages in a form as frail and small as this; the long road suddenly seemed daunting and impossible and Castiel found himself stopping with an unintentional, shrill _mew_ of distress.

He was never going to get back to them again.

And, as if the heavens were mocking him, it started to rain, a cold, relentless deluge that pelted against Castiel’s fur and left him shivering. It was the sort of rain that drenched and clung to the bone, and his sopping fur made each step feel ten times heavier.

This is how Castiel ends up curled miserably under a dumpster on the side of the road, huddled in a soaking wet ball and shivers racking his entire frame. Thunder growls and vibrates the dirty cement under his paws, and an old Biggerson’s wrapper stained with ketchup is balled directly to his right. Castiel flattens his ears to his head and shifts his paws, hoping in vain the friction will warm him, but to no avail.

The rain pounds mercilessly on the dumpster above him, rattling like tin drums in his sensitive ears.

Castiel wonders if he’ll die here; if he’ll freeze to death under this disgusting dumpster, will vanish without a trace. He wonders if the Winchesters will look for him, if Dean will grieve him, if his brothers and sisters will even care if he vanishes like a shadow on an alley wall.

No, Castiel thinks bleakly. The world is better off without him in it, causing accidental bloody messes. It’s this conviction that warms Castiel, even if only a little.

Castiel thinks he’s hallucinating when he hears the familiar, throttling growl of the Impala’s engine in the distance, and his ears flick up instinctively, honing in on the sound above the rattle of the rain.

He slips out from under the dumpster in time to see headlights bob in the distance; from the direction of Dorma’s apartment, no less.

Castiel would recognize that car anywhere, from the sound of its engine to the smell of its old leather seats to the bulbous shape of its headlights.

The Impala zooms closer, unceasingly quick, and Castiel is seized with adrenaline and urgency and the thought of, _Last chance, last chance,_ before he hurls himself out into the road with every ounce of strength his small, soaked body can muster—

He has time to register a squeal of tires, the blinding burst of headlights in his eyes before everything goes dark.

\---

“I just don’t understand why a witch would have interest in— _Dean!_ ” Sam yells, and Dean doesn’t ask questions, takes one nanosecond to catalog the startled alarm on Sam’s face before he slams a foot on the brakes, prompting a screech of protest from the car as it comes to a shuddering halt. For a moment, the only sounds are the Impala’s rain-muffled engine and Sam and Dean’s shocked, mingled breathing.

“What?” Dean snaps, the rawness of his lingering adrenaline making him edgy, but Sam is already flinging the door open and is ducking out into the rain. He jogs in front of the car, illuminating his frame in the glare of the headlights, before he stares down onto the road and glances up to gaze at Dean in bewilderment.

Dean cranes his neck to see but can’t discern anything on the wet, dark concrete, only Sam stooping to scoop something up from the asphalt.

As he nears the car, it appears he’s holding some sort of drowned toupee.

Dean cranks down the window and asks, flatly, “What the fuck is that.”

“I think it’s…a cat,” Sam says uncertainly, cradling the clump of fur to his chest.

“Well, put it back where you found it.”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam protests with a horrified, almost scandalized look, and he clutches the thing closer to his chest as if shielding it from his brother.

“I’m serious, Sam, no pets in the car, you know the rules. Put it back.”

“Dean, we can’t just leave it here to _die_. It’ll get crushed by a car, or it’ll freeze to death!”

Dean shrugs. “Not our problem.”

“Oh my God, I can’t even believe you sometimes! This is an innocent creature—”

“Sam, I swear to God I will punch you in the throat if you go on your whole ‘Arms of an Angel’ schpeel to me again. We’re hunters, not the goddamn ASPCA.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sam entreats with wide, earnest eyes, like he’s a five year old asking his parents for a new puppy. “You won’t even see it, I promise—”

“Sam, _no,_ alright? What are you gonna do with it, huh? We’re on the road all the time; that’s no life for a cat, or any pet, for that matter! We can’t even get it into the motel without getting kicked out.” Dean sits back in his seat and shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation right now.”

“Just because you’re all pissed off and worried that Cas is missing doesn’t mean you can be a dick to innocent animals, Dean,” Sam says with considerably more bite in his voice. “I’m keeping it until I can at least get it to an animal shelter, and that’s final.”

“Wh— _Cas?_ What does this have to do with—would you just get in the fucking car?” Because Sam is standing there getting _drenched_ , his long hair clinging to his neck and rain dribbling into his eyes, looking like some sort of drowned rat.

Sam tucks the cat to his chest in a convictive way and drops into the car with a loud, protesting squeak of the seat beneath him.

“Great,” Dean mutters. “Now you’re gonna ruin the upholstery.”

“Don’t be such a priss. You’re just mad I won.” Sam isn’t even looking at him; he’s all doe-eyes at the kitten, tucking it in his jacket, cupping it in his hands and trying to warm it up.

“You did not _win._ We’re dropping that…that _rat-_ thing at a pound the first thing in the morning. And _shit_ , Sam, you know I’m allergic to cats.”

“I don’t think this one sheds,” Sam says in the adoring sort of voice that just screams _“I already named it.”_

“It looks dead,” Dean says decisively as he starts the car again, sending the windshield wipers slogging against the sheet of rain on the glass.

“I think it went into shock when the Impala almost hit it. Although,” Sam says with a soft frown, “I could’ve sworn I saw it dart out. That’s what made me warn you.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. Just keep the thing away from me.”

“You love it,” Sam croons with a teasing look in Dean’s direction.

“No, I don’t. I hate cats.” And as if to punctuate his point, Dean sneezes, jerking the car sideways.

Great. Just freaking fantastic.

\--

Castiel wakes up warm, so he wonders if he’s died; the soothing motions on his back certainly can’t be earthly, and he feels a strange noise rumble in his chest, vibrating through his bones.

“Dean,” someone says through a tunnel of sound. “Dean, it’s _purring._ ”

Castiel frowns, twitches his nose, shifts. Sam…?

“Yeah, Sam. It’s a cat, they do that. Don’t jizz yourself.”

Castiel blinks awake at that.

He’s met with Sam stooping down to look him in the eye, and Castiel watches a bit dazedly as Sam’s lips split into a tiny smile. “Hi, kitty. Welcome back.”

“Sam,” Castiel tries to say, attempting to sit straight up when he realizes where he is, but all that escapes is a high-pitched meow. Sam clamps a huge hand down on him as Castiel struggles.

“Shh, shh,” Sam says. “It’s okay, shh, calm down.” Castiel finds himself being scooped into Sam’s huge, calloused hands, and he fights the strange instinctive urge to flick out his claws, dig them into skin, and flee.

“That thing probably has rabies,” Castiel hears Dean say from the motel room, and Castiel swivels a bit to follow his voice.

Dean’s staring at him, and he does a strange little double take when their eyes meet before he firmly drops his gaze back to his laptop.

“He doesn’t have rabies,” Sam says in an educating voice. “He’s probably just freaked out that he doesn’t know where he is.”

“I know perfectly well where I am,” Castiel says irritably, but of course it just comes out as cat noises.

“Jeez, it’s already yowling. Get it to shut up,” Dean says without bothering to look up from his laptop.

Castiel scowls at Dean.

“Haha,” Sam says, peering down at him, “if looks could kill. The cat doesn’t like you.”

Dean shrugs and sniffs. “So what? I don’t care if the cat likes me or not.”

“Yeah, sure you don’t. You know animals can _sense_ when you don’t like them, right?” Sam cups Castiel close to his chest and crosses to sit next to Dean on the bed, where Castiel attempts escape again by squirming in Sam’s hands. “See, he’s trying to get away from you.”

Dean glances up at Castiel again and seems to freeze up for a minute when their gazes lock again, his green eyes widening, and Castiel urges some sort of connection between them there— _Dean, Dean, it’s me, surely you recognize…?_ —but Dean just looks unsettled, darts his eyes away, licks his lips. Says, “Spooky little thing.”

“Why, just because he’s a black cat?”

Dean frowns. “It’s not black, more like a darkish brown. And it stares, man. I hate cats that stare.”

Sam strokes a hand down Castiel’s back, warming his fur, before he moves a finger and crooks it under his ear. Castiel can’t help it, governed by his body’s reactions; he tilts his head into Sam’s hand and purrs loudly, despite his humiliation at doing so. Angels don’t _purr;_ he remembers with a soft clench that he can’t claim to be that, either.

Castiel flattens his ears, choked suddenly by shame and embarrassment.

“Moody little thing, aren’t you, boy?” Sam asks softly.

“How’d you know it’s a ‘he’?” Dean asks, shutting his laptop and moving it off his lap. “Could be a chick cat.”

Sam frowns and, much to Castiel’s exasperation (and somewhat perverse embarrassment), flips him over on his back to examine between his legs.

“Well, I’m not an expert in cat genitalia,” Sam begins, and Dean gripes, “The fuck did you go to college for, then?” which earns him a small grin.

“But those look like cat balls to me.”

Dean leans forward a bit to observe with a small frown as Castiel squirms, feeling oddly violated.

“Hmm,” Dean says with a shrug. “Whatever.”

Castiel hisses menacingly and Sam releases his grip, allowing Castiel to flip over onto his stomach and leap off the bed into an unsteady landing.

“Don’t get attached, Sam,” Dean warns. “That thing leaves here in the morning,” and Castiel freezes.

 _Leaves_? As in, Sam and Dean are getting rid of him? Leaving him at an animal shelter where he’ll be picked up by another family, trapped in this body forever?

Panic washes over him and Castiel twists with a loud yowl of protest, startling both Sam and Dean.

“Whoa,” Sam says, his eyebrows crested in a weirded-out expression, “that was weird. I guess he doesn’t want to go.”

“ _It,_ ” Dean corrects through clenched teeth, meeting Castiel’s eyes in an irritable challenge, “doesn’t have a say in the matter. We’re not taking a _cat_ with us on a witch-hunt. Cas is on the line here and we don’t need anything interfering.”

Castiel’s tail, which had been whipping angrily from side to side, stills in surprise at hearing himself mentioned. So the boys must have stopped by Dorma’s then; that’s why, of course, they’d been coming from that direction. They know now that he’s missing.

“Yeah, one little kitten is gonna keep us from finding Cas,” Sam says incredulously.

Castiel meows loudly, pointedly. “ _I’m_ Cas!”

“He agrees,” Sam says with a smug smile, and Castiel stifles an inward groan.

“Whatever,” Dean says, “Cas fucked up again and now we have to clean up after him. The kitten ain’t coming.”

Something at Dean’s words stings horribly, so harshly that something in Castiel’s stomach sinks and he feels his ears flatten to his head again.

_Cas fucked up again._

Of course. Dean is exasperated with Castiel’s never-ending line of mistakes, and having to clean up after him, as he’d put it. This doesn’t surprise Castiel at all—rather, it’s what he expected—but his hurt at hearing Dean say the words aloud is nearly excruciating. He feels… betrayed by Dean, his only friend beside Sam, his _closest_ friend. Ashamed and horrified to have let him down in so many irrevocable ways.

Castiel hates himself.

Castiel slinks into the dark shelter under the bed despite Sam’s soft, wordless protest and he curls up there, resigning himself to his fate. Tomorrow, Sam and Dean will drop him off at an animal shelter and leave him to be a cat for the rest of his unfortunate existence. It’s a punishment he deserves, and a penance he hadn’t known he was looking for. Furthermore, it will free Dean (and Sam) of his burden. It’s a better situation for all, Castiel thinks tiredly, but can’t help but imagine how much he’ll miss the Winchesters.

Dean, particularly.

How much he’ll miss _Dean._

Castiel tucks his tail over his nose and slits his eyes, some of his previous exhaustion creeping up on him and pulling at his consciousness. Before he falls asleep, he wonders, _what do cats dream about?_

He doesn’t dream.

\--

            Castiel is rudely awoken the next morning by a hand grappling at his back until it locates his scruff, gripping down hard, and yanking him out of his shelter into the harsh morning light.

            Castiel caterwauls indignantly, lashing out with his claws as he tries to regain his bearings, but Dean holds him at arm’s length and looks amused by his futile struggle against the air.

            “So Sam left for breakfast,” Dean tells him. “I think he’s hoping I get attached to you.”

            Castiel stills and hangs motionless in Dean’s grasp, other than to wiggle uncomfortably at the feeling of being suspended in the air.

            “You are a creepy little thing,” Dean murmurs, narrowing his eyes.

            “Dean,” Castiel meows, “it’s _me,_ it’s Castiel, the witch, she—”

            “Jeez, quit your whining,” Dean says, and tosses him carelessly onto one of the beds so that he bounces and scrambles to get upright, which has Dean busting out into laughter.

            “I’m glad this is so _funny_ to you,” Castiel meows, his fur bristling in irritation and his tail lashing, and Dean stills just a bit as their eyes meet again.

            “You’re a weird cat,” Dean says, stepping a bit closer and squinting as if to observe Castiel more closely. “You remind me a bit of a friend of mine.”

            Castiel waits expectantly.

            Dean huffs an acerbic little laugh. “Except we’re about to ditch you and he’s always the one that ditches me, so. Tables turned.”

            Castiel frowns, genuinely disheartened that Dean thinks this about him. “Dean, I don’t mean to leave you behind. You do realize that, right? I would never _willingly_ leave you.”

            “You’re also more noisy and annoying than any kitten I’ve ever met,” Dean says, and sits beside him. “Ugh, I hate cats.”

            He sneezes twice and glares at Castiel.

            This is his chance, Castiel realizes in a sudden burst of intuition. If he can make Dean like him, warm up to him, then he won’t have to leave.

            Castiel doesn’t really know how to go about charming someone as a cat—he wouldn’t even be able to charm Dean as a human, after all—but he opts for padding across the bedding toward Dean and running his side against Dean’s jean leg. That seems like a cat thing to do.

            “Gross,” Dean complains, swatting at him and sending him tumbling onto his side, but Castiel is nothing if not persistent, so he regains his footing and goes at it again, placing his front paws on the platform of Dean’s leg, swiveling his ears forward, and staring at Dean expectantly.

            Dean stares back, seeming torn between disbelief and reluctant amusement, before he tentatively strokes a thumb along the top of Castiel’s head.

            To encourage him, Castiel tips his head into Dean’s touch and purrs loudly, a raspy whir in his throat, and when Dean stops momentarily, Castiel butts his head against Dean’s hand until he keeps going.

            “Determined little fucker, aren’t you?” Dean says, but his voice is soft and almost bemused. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were kissing ass.”

            Castiel doesn’t deign reply to this, just hops the rest of the way onto Dean’s leg and arches his back as Dean’s hand sweeps the length of his pelt.

            Castiel can’t pretend he’s not enjoying this a little. Or maybe a lot. There’s certainly something rewarding about being petted, although he assumes that has to do with the cat instincts, but there’s also something very…different in being touched by Dean rather than Sam.

            Castiel wants to be closer to Dean, he realizes. He _craves_ Dean’s touch. He blames it on being a cat needy for human affection, but something about the pleasure of Dean’s hands on him settles uncomfortably in his gut. It’s a tingly, warm sort of spark, something electric.

            “Okay, you’re kinda cute,” Dean concedes eventually, actually smiling as he scratches a finger under Castiel’s chin. “Tell Sam I said that and I’ll kill you.”

            “Tell me what?” Sam asks as he shoulders through the door with a fistful of McDonald’s bags, and Dean jerks away from Castiel like he’s been electrocuted. Stung and startled, Castiel launches off Dean’s lap and hits the ground at an odd angle; Dean’s resounding yelp rings in his ears as he takes refuge under the bed again.

            “The little shit scratched me!” Dean says in an affronted voice. “You freaked him out, thanks a lot!”

            “What, were you just starting to bond or something?” Sam asks with a skeptical snort, and there’s a rustle as he presumably places the bags on the table. “Any leads on Cas?”

            “No,” Dean says, sounding surprisingly dejected. “Doreen or whatever covers her tracks really well. Who knows where she’s got him stashed?”

            Castiel pokes his head out from under the bed, opening his mouth to intervene before Sam tosses Dean his bag of breakfast, which receives a muttered, “Thanks.”

            “What the hell does a witch want with Cas, anyway?” Dean asks a few moments later, sounding frustrated.

            “That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Sam says, digging into his breakfast burrito. “It just doesn’t add up, y’know? Anyway, the only thing research and stalking is telling me is that Dorma’s got somewhat of a permanent place in California. Maybe we should head out west?”

            “Only lead we’ve got,” Dean says, his shoulders slumped and his expression morose. He stares for a moment at his hash brown before he shoves it half-eaten into the bag—which causes Sam to arch his eyebrows in surprise—and folds his face into his hands.

            “Dean?” Sam asks, cautiously, and Castiel creeps out from under the bed, padding toward Dean.

            “What if he’s dead?” Dean asks in a quiet voice, so quiet that Castiel has to prick his ears to hear it.

            “No,” Sam says firmly. “He’s not dead.”

            “That dumb bastard,” Dean says in nearly a growl. “If he’d just _waited—_ “

            “We should probably hit the road,” Sam says quickly, as if sensing an oncoming rant, and stands to start packing his stuff.

            Castiel sits by Dean’s feet, his shoulders hunched miserably. Dean’s right, of course. If he’d waited, they’d never be in this situation; Dean wouldn’t be worried about him, and Castiel wouldn’t be a kitten.

            Almost absent-mindedly, Dean reaches down to stroke Castiel’s pelt, and Castiel can’t help but purr at the feeling of Dean’s calloused, certain fingers plumbing through his fur, massaging gently around his ears. Castiel feels his eyes close as he leans into Dean’s touch, oddly content despite his situation.

            “So did you find a place?” Sam asks as he shrugs on a fourth layer—a slightly oversized fall coat.

            “Hmm?” Dean murmurs, as if he’s been pulled from his thoughts.

            “A place for the kitten? I thought you’d be looking up shelters and stuff.”

            Castiel stiffens under Dean’s ministrations, every vein in his body iced with dread, and Dean seems to sense this because his hand slows in its strokes.

            “Oh. Um, yeah. I, uh, think there’s one about fifteen miles east. Saw it coming in.” Dean clears his throat and much to Castiel’s displeasure, removes his hand. “You…you think he’ll go to a good home, right?”

            “Since when do you care, Dean?” Sam asks with a small frown as he bundles up his laptop and tucks it into his backpack.

            “I dunno. He’s a cute little guy. I’d hate it if he went to a family that like, neglected him or something.” Dean’s body radiates defensiveness, and when Sam glances at him incredulously, he shrugs in an embarrassed, aggressive way and says, “What?”

            Sam just gives a shit-eating grin, holds out his arms wide, and sings off-key, “ _Arrrmmss offff the angel…._ ”

            “Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

            “Yeah, you’d know something about the arms of an angel, wouldn’t you, Dean.”

            “Shut the _fuck_ up, Sam.”

Castiel’s left trying to puzzle out the jibe, knowing intuitively by Dean’s reaction that it somehow is referencing himself.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on,” Sam says with a wistful look toward Castiel. “Time to hit the road.”

Dean nods and shrugs his duffel over one shoulder, using the other hand to scoop Castiel up and tuck him into his jacket.

Castiel struggles and meows irritably into the stuffy darkness.

“Sorry, buddy, can’t risk the motel staff seeing you,” Dean explains, and Castiel stills and relaxes, tasting the familiar scent of Dean in such close proximity, something like leather and clean soap and electricity. He butts his head into Dean’s chest, mainly to see if he can pull a reaction out of him, and Dean’s hand around him through the jacket fabric tightens in remonstration.

“Did you enjoy your stay?” a voice asks warmly, and Sam and Dean give muffled affirmative answers. Castiel squirms against the uneven jolt of Dean’s steps, and soon enough they’re in the car with Castiel dumped unceremoniously into the backseat with Sam and Dean’s bags.

“To the animal shelter?” Sam asks sadly, and Dean nods. Castiel’s heart leaps to his throat, then sinks just as quickly.

“Yep,” Dean says, and starts the car.

\--

            Okay. Dean’s gonna be honest.

            He doesn’t want to give up the kitten.

            But no way in hell is he going to admit that to Sam. Besides, he knows he was right when he said that the road life is no life for a pet; it’s dangerous and inconvenient, not to mention impractical. He and Sam can barely afford gas, let alone to care for a cat.

            But he feels oddly connected with the thing, like it _likes_ him or something. And yeah, Dean’s eyes are puffy a bit from allergies and he sneezes like once every three minutes, but…

            Dean flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror to look at the kitten, who’s watching him with big, mournful blue eyes. That’s the other thing; its creepy-ass eyes. Maybe it’s because of the contrast of its dark fur, but those have got to be the weirdest, bluest eyes he’s ever seen on an animal. Maybe it’s not the color as much as the intelligence in them…but that’s insane. Cats aren’t _intelligent._

He’d never say so to Sam—he has a hard time even admitting it to himself—but the little thing reminds him of Cas, its stupid blue eyes and its staring and its moody stubbornness. It’s possibly the sappiest shit Dean’s brain has come up with, at least recently, but yeah, the thing reminds him of his possibly dead and incredibly idiotic best friend.

            Dean finds himself thinking of potential names for the kitten before cutting himself short in disgust.

            No, he’s not _naming_ it. Then he’s gonna get attached to it.

            Kashmir’s got a nice ring to it.

            Dean turns the car halfway on the way to the shelter and swerves it onto the opposite highway, prompting a high-pitched, “Dean?” from Sam in the passenger seat.

            “Fuck it, Sam, we’re keeping the cat.”

            “Are you serious?” Sam asks with such wide-eyed excitement that Dean almost regrets that he didn’t agree to Sam’s plea earlier.

            “Yeah, really. I’m gonna have puffy eyes for weeks and I’m going to be sneezing enough to hock up a lung, but whatever, we’re keeping it. I don’t want it going to some asshole that beats it or something.”

            “Thanks, Dean,” Sam says giddily and reaches a hand into the backseat so that the kitten can crawl into his palm. “Hey, buddy, welcome to the family.”

            Dean snorts and rolls his eyes as Sam settles the kitten onto his lap. Dean glances over; the kitten’s staring at him with those huge aqua blue eyes, and Dean _knows_ he’s imagining the gratitude there because cats can’t feel _._

            “Yeah,” Dean tells the kitten and Sam. “I’m the best big brother on the planet.”

            “Maybe it’ll like you now,” Sam teases as he pets the kitten, who arches into Sam’s touch and purrs.

            “Yeah,” Dean says with a snort. “Maybe.”

\--

            Dean’s surprised (and secretly pleased) to find the kitten sleeping on the foot of his bed that night. And the next night.

            And the next.

\--

            Castiel blinks awake to the sound of loud bustling and doors slamming. He pokes his head up sleepily only to see Dean already staring at him as he shrugs on his jacket and adjusts his collar.

            Castiel yawns, then sneezes at the dust motes that stir around him, and Dean laughs.

            “We’re going witch-hunting, cat,” Dean tells him, and Castiel sits straight up in alarm, ears pointing toward Dean on alert. “Don’t look so concerned. We’re just asking around to see where she might be staying.”

            Castiel relaxes, his fur smoothing, and he undigs his claws from the sun-soaked comforter.

            “If I didn’t know better, I could swear he can understand everything you’re saying,” Sam says with a sharp grin toward Dean, who shrugs.

            “Who knows, maybe it can.”

            Castiel watches wistfully as the two boys bustle out the door and slam it behind them, leaving him completely alone.

            He spends the day mostly sleeping or bored; he finds it strangely and addictively appealing to stretch out in the sun slanting in through the motel windows, even more to roll around and stretch out his paws toward the ceiling, rubbing his fur against the carpet.

            Castiel finds it somewhat alarming just how _much_ of his current existence is dominated by the cat instincts he shares his brain with; he’ll find himself cleaning himself five minutes after he’s actually begun lapping at his arm, or he’ll find himself mindlessly chasing his tail for something to do. He now aches for the attention the Winchesters give him, especially Dean.

            Castiel hates every moment of being a cat, except where he doesn’t.

            Because on one hand it’s degrading and humiliating, being subject to a state such as this, being dictated by animalistic and absurd instincts, but on the other…Dean is open and unguarded with him in a way that he never was when Castiel was human. He smiles at Castiel when Sam isn’t looking, pets him, sometimes wrestles with him, _talks_ to him. Even lets him sleep on the foot of his bed. Castiel tries not to think of how quickly uncomfortable these days will be if Dean ever were to find out the truth about his predicament.

            After what feels like days, Sam and Dean trail in bedraggled and hunched, their faces drawn and pinched with a day’s strain.

            Castiel meows an inquiry and freezes when he sees a thin, bloody scratch crusted along the length of Dean’s shoulder to his forearm. Castiel stops short, bristles, hisses in shock at the sight of Dean injured.

            “It’s okay, cat,” Sam tells him, as if sensing his concern, and gives a tired smile. “We just ran into Dorma’s little…ah, companion.”

            “Don’t talk to it as if it understands you,” Dean snaps, shuffling to the bed clutching his shoulder, his expression stormy. Sam looks stung but shrugs it off and heads for the restroom.

            “It at least means we’re on the right track,” Sam says, to Dean this time.

            “Yeah, and now she knows we’re here!” Dean says, and…is that despair creeping into his voice? “We’re not one fucking step closer to finding Cas.”

            Castiel watches with a sense of wonder the array of emotions that dance across Dean’s face; anger, pain, concern, misery. On…his behalf?

            Castiel leaps up onto the bed beside Dean and gently nudges his arm, meowing in a desperate attempt to communicate. “Dean, it’s me. Don’t hate yourself just because I made a dumb mistake. Please.”

            Dean ignores him—even bats him away once—but Castiel stubbornly keeps tapping his head against Dean’s arm until Dean relents and places a huge, soft hand on Castiel’s head, flattening his ears. Castiel purrs, butts upward into Dean’s palm, and Dean sighs and pets him, muttering under his breath.

            “I hate dogs,” Dean confides in Castiel in a low grumble, shifting his arm and wincing, and Castiel meows a soft agreement.

            Sam emerges from the bathroom with a sewing needle, some thread, and a half-full bottle of whiskey.

            Dean hisses out a low, anticipatory whine between his teeth, and Sam crooks his eyebrows sympathetically and says, “Yeah, this is gonna smart a bit.”

            After it’s all over, Dean is lying on his good side in a state of half-consciousness; Castiel watches the slow flutter of his eyelashes, his tongue flicking out to wet his dry, cracked lips, but he seems lost in thought so Castiel doesn’t disturb him. He takes the time to ruminate on the fact that he can no longer protect Dean; that his prior charge is left to the mercy of witches and ghosts and vicious oversized Bloodhounds.

            The helplessness he feels is crippling and is, for once, not directly related to his current state as a feline.

            Sam flicks out the lights sometime later and says, “Night, Dean. We’ll hit the road tomorrow, okay? I’ll drive if you’re not feeling up to it.”

            Dean nods in confirmation and Castiel listens with his newfound hearing ability the slowing fluctuation of Sam’s breath, in rhythm with the hum of the air conditioner.

            Castiel remains sitting at the foot of the bed, watching over Dean. His eyes are still cracked open, glazed with silver in the moonlight, and he twists uncomfortably every once in a while, grimacing with pain and discomfort. Finally, he flips back onto his good side and stares out the window, as if in deep thought. There’s a soft, almost permanent worry line creased above his brow, marring his delicate features, and Castiel gazes at Dean for a very long time and thinks that he’s beautiful, even if Dean would cringe to hear it.

            When an hour slips into two and Dean’s still wide-awake and staring, Castiel takes a risk and crawls up the length of the bed, padding softly against the beat-up hotel comforter.

            Dean starts in surprise and sneezes when Castiel comes to a halt directly in front of him, tail flickering uncertainly from side to side. Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to Dean before; close enough to see the individual strands of his eyelashes, the myriads of freckles that dust his nose and his cheekbones, the darker flecks of green in his eyes.

            Dean blinks at him for a moment before whispering, “Quit your staring.”

            Castiel, feeling chastened and embarrassed, glances away, and is surprised to hear a quiet, warm thrum of laughter just beside him.

            “Sam’s right,” Dean says, still quietly. “I think you can understand every word I say, can’t you?”

            Castiel looks at him eagerly, entreating him to understand, but Dean just murmurs, “Go to sleep, cat,” and closes his eyes.

            Castiel takes a deep breath and a leap of faith and curls up next to Dean’s chest, shivering at the warmth baking through Dean’s thin shirt and into his fur, and Dean starts in surprise beneath him.

            “Great,” he says in a throaty grumble. “I’m gonna be sneezing all night.” But contrary to his words, his hand comes up to stroke softly along the length of Castiel’s spine. Castiel, of course, can’t help but purr, that strange, almost dreamy contentment gripping him again and making him light-headed.

            “We need a name for you other than ‘cat’,” Dean whispers. “How d’you like Kashmir? From _Physical Graffiti,_ y’know.”

            Castiel flicks one ear tiredly; he doesn’t care what Dean calls him, not really.

            “Kash for short.”

            Both of Castiel’s ears flick up in interest at the familiarity of the name, and Dean notices and laughs quietly. “You like that one, yeah?”

            Castiel butts his head into Dean’s chest in lieu of an answer.

            “Fine. Kash it is. Dunno how I’ll break it to Sam. He probably wants to name you Gandhi or something.”

            Much to Castiel’s relief, Dean falls asleep shortly after that; Castiel slits his eyes and matches his breathing to the steady rise-and-fall of Dean’s chest beneath him. Sometime during the night, Dean’s arm winds to cup Castiel closer to his chest, as if looking for something to cling onto.

            He sneezes once or twice, but Castiel doesn’t wake.

\--

            “Cuddling, Dean? Really?”

            “Shut up, Sam,” Dean grumbles before he even opens his eyes; the kitten is a warm center of heat on his chest, and when Dean peers down, he sees that its eyes are still shut, its little face scrunched in sleep. “The cat’s decision, not mine.”

            “That thing really adores you, Dean,” Sam says, sounding envious. “I don’t even get why.”

            “I’m awesome,” Dean says with a wide grin, which earns him a pillow to the face.

            “He needs a name,” Sam says as the kitten stirs and blinks open its big blue eyes to stare hazily up at Dean. “I was thinking Emerson or Thoreau, you know? Those are cute names for cats.”

            “I already named him,” Dean says decisively, sitting up and cracking his neck to the side. Kash follows in his wake, meowing, probably in demand of food.

            “Um, and were you gonna tell me what that was anytime soon?”

            “His name is Kashmir.”

            Sam’s frown deepens into one of disapproval. “What?”

            “If you listened to any good music, you’d understand the reference.”

            “Kashmir is a stupid name for a cat, Dean.”

            “He likes it. I call him Kash for short.”

            And Sam freezes a bit at that and looks at Dean carefully; it’s so quick that Dean almost misses it, but he knows Sam better than anyone and is instantly suspicious by the concerned, cautious look in Sam’s eyes.

            “ _What_ , Sam.”

            “Nothing, Dean.”

            “No, no, that was one of your _looks_. Come on, spit it out.”

            “It’s nothing, really.”

            “ _Sam._ ”

            “It’s just…” Sam rubs his hands against his jeans and goes about his words slowly, as if tiptoeing on glass. “You, um…you don’t think you’re _projecting_ a bit on the cat?”

            Dean frowns. “Projecting what?”

            Sam raises his eyebrows in a significant way and says quietly, almost admonishingly, “Dean.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dean says, rolling to his feet and squaring his shoulders defensively. “I’m not _project—_ don’t psychoanalyze me!”

            “I’m not! Dean, I’m not an idiot, alright? I see the way you look at that thing, and I get it, all right, it reminds you of Cas. But it’s _not_ Cas. And you can’t pretend like it is, it’s not healthy.”

            “Are you fucking nuts?” Dean says, something hot and uncomfortable working his way up his throat. “I don’t think the cat is _Cas,_ I’m not crazy! You think I’m _projecting_ or whatever just because I nicknamed it after a Led Zeppelin song? Jesus, Sam.”

            “It’s not that, Dean,” Sam persists. “It’s just…whatever. Forget it. I’m only trying to help. I know you’re worried about Cas, but—”

            “Cas is probably _fine._ I’m not—I mean, I’m _worried,_ but it’s not like—”

            “Dean. I get it,” Sam says, so firmly that Dean suspects it’s a consolation. “One time when I was still at Stanford, Jess went missing for a few days after a party, and I nearly went off the rails. Every little thing reminded me of her, and I couldn’t stop thinking, you know, ‘what if, what if, what if.’ We finally found her a few days later a town over at her friend’s house, where she’d been staying. So yeah, I get it. And I’m worried about him, too, Dean. But…” Sam shuffles a hand through his hair and thins his lips in exasperation. “Don’t take it out on the cat.”

            Dean’s still reeling at the Jessica comparison.

            “What do you mean _Jess—_ Cas isn’t like, I mean, it’s not like I’m—”

            But Sam just raises his eyebrows in that infuriatingly knowing way, the way he did when he was a kid and knew something that Dean didn’t, and lopes off to take a shower.

            “That little _bitch,_ ” Dean says after him with lack of something better to say.

            “Jerk,” Sam answers cheerily from inside the bathroom.

            Dean turns to stare at Kash, who’s gazing at him with his paws tucked together and his blue eyes wide.

            “Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dean tells him. “I don’t think you’re Cas.”

            Kash jerks to his feet and meows loudly, insistently, and Dean sighs and says, “Jeez, needy little thing,” and gets up to feed him.

            Kash yowls behind him, as if in irritation.

            Sam heads out of the shower only moments later, followed by a cloud of steam and a tossed, “It’s all yours,” to Dean as he packs up stuff to put in the car.

            Dean takes a brief shower and tries intensely not to use the alone time to worry about Cas, but honestly, that’s all that seems to be on his mind lately. He closes his eyes, feels the hot water sluice over him, thinks of slashing through throats to get to Cas in purgatory. Praying night in, night out to Cas; what had started as, _Hey, Cas, I’m sending you an image of where I am, okay? Check in,_ to _Where the hell are you, man?_ To _Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas,_ to _Cas, please, answer me if you’re alive, please, I’m freaking the fuck out and I’m all fucking alone so please find me, please._ Did Cas even remember any of those pleas swallowed in the soft cries of dying, mangled birds, in the rustle of the skeletal trees?

            Dean climbs out of the shower and very pointedly directs his thoughts away from purgatory. It’s a dark space in his head, and he usually is consumed if he lingers for long.

            Sam’s a dick and took the last towel, as the others had been used to mop up Dean’s blood the night before, so Dean resigns himself to using the wet one probably draped over Sam’s bed.

            He pushes out of the bathroom and winces at the sharp cut of cold air, an uncomfortable contrast from the gummy warmth of the steam-filled bathroom, and glances around cursorily to make sure Sam’s gone. S’not like it’s anything Sam hasn’t seen, but Dean’s not exactly a flaunter.

            His gaze fastens on the white towel crumpled on Sam’s bed, just as predicted, and sighs and heads over to get it. He’s halfway through toweling off his hair when he realizes Kash is staring at him like a deer-in-headlights from where he’s perched on the motel table.

            “What?” Dean asks, wrapping the damp towel a bit self-consciously around his waist because, seriously, the staring. “Never seen a naked guy before?”

            Kash pointedly redirects his gaze and hops off the table, slinking under Dean’s bed.

            “Little prude,” Dean grumbles, grabbing the clean clothes from off his bed and heading back to the bathroom.

\--

            They spend the day on the road, much to Castiel’s displeasure—he remains seated in either Sam or Dean’s lap in the shotgun seat, as the two alternate driving, and listens to them idly as they discuss the best tactic of approach once they reach California. Dean’s still resentful of the fact that the witch had known their previous location and sic’ed the Bloodhound on him and insists when he’s not driving for Sam to drive more quickly, as if they’ll outrace her somehow.

            Castiel speaks up a few times in attempt to tell them the search for him will prove utterly futile, but the witch is Castiel’s only chance of changing back to a human—or an angel—so he resigns himself to another few weeks of search, hairballs, and going to the bathroom outside.

            Castiel doesn’t mind riding in the car as a human; he actually sometimes enjoys it, the therapeutic unraveling of the land as they fly past down an open road, but he _hates_ it as an animal. He feels constantly like he’s about to be sick, and when he’s not biting back bile, he’s closing his eyes to fight nausea. Dean seems to intuit his discomfort and sweeps his hand down Castiel’s fur in long, soothing slides whenever Sam’s the one driving.

            The day is uneventful other than when they pass through a small town called Barton just outside Las Vegas.  The town’s population is roughly 400, as Castiel reads on the sign, so small that most of the townsfolk are out and about on the sidewalks and in the shops that line the street. Dean’s driving when he suddenly double takes and slams a foot on the brakes, sending Sam and Cas catapulting forward.

            “ _Dean_ ,” Sam’s already exclaiming, “what the—” but Dean has an angry, chagrined look to him and he lurches the car forward again, tight-jawed and without explanation.

            Castiel swivels in Sam’s lap and places his paws up on the window ledge—only to see an unfamiliar, dark-haired man in a trenchcoat stalled outside of the shops, gazing up at the sign.

            “Care to explain what that was all about?” Sam asks, though he clearly already knows, if his eyes trained on the trenchcoated stranger are any indication.

            “It’s nothing,” Dean grinds out, clamping his hands more tightly on the wheel. “Thought I saw something for a second, sorry.”

            “You thought you saw Cas,” Sam corrects, his voice neutral.

            “So? Guy wears a dirty trenchcoat for six years; has a certain conditioning effect on you.”

            “Dean,” Sam says in a quiet voice, rubbing at Castiel’s shoulders; Castiel has gone tense, staring at Dean in a mix of affection and astonishment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

            “No.”

            The word is so firm that Sam puts his hands up in surrender and continues looking out the window with a brooding expression, his hands a little rougher on Castiel’s fur.

            Not a word is spoken for the rest of the drive.

\--

            Dean comes home drunk that night.

            Sam takes one look and whiff at Dean when he stumbles in at eleven, and his eyes go all cold and angry before they soften with something like sadness and defeat and he tells Dean, “I’m leaving.”

            “Why’s that?” Dean slurs, stumbling into the bathroom door with his jacket half-slung off his shoulder.

            Sam tightens his lips and folds his arms. “Because I can’t stand it when you’re drunk, Dean. I’m sorry, but I’m going to let you sleep this one off. I’ll get a beer and be back in an hour.”

            “Wait, Sammy,” Dean calls out after him, his tongue tangling on the ‘s’. “Hey, ‘m sorry, okay?”

            “I know you are, Dean,” Sam says over his shoulder, eyes wide and sad, and he shuts the door behind him.

            “Fucker,” Dean says in almost a grunt, peeling off another layer of clothing. “Leavin’ me here alone.”

            Castiel is staring at Dean in something like disappointment and distress; he feels his tail twitching nervously. He dislikes Dean drinking as much as Sam does.

            “What are you lookin’ at?” Dean asks him, eyes squinted. A sheen of sweat has broken out over his forehead, and his eyes are dark and miserable. “You disappointed in me too?”

            Castiel meows, neither an affirmation nor negation.

            “’Course you are. I disappoint everyone, don’t I?” Dean leans down to take off his boot and stumbles into the table with a loud crash. He plants himself on the carpet to take off his other shoe and continues, “Guess that explains why everyone leaves me, yeah? That explains a lot.”

            “Dean,” Castiel tries, but of course no words come out.

            “Don’t even get me started on Sam. And I mean, like, fuckin’ Cas has been leaving me for years, right? ‘least most people say goodbye or somethin’. Told him I needed him and he fucked off to Narnia or something. That’s just it, isn’t it?” Dean continues with a small, ugly smile. “I need Sam, I need Cas, but no one needs me. I could be dead for all they care.”

            Castiel is watching Dean with something akin to horror as Dean plops down on the bed and shoves his face into his hands, his shoulders a rigid line and his back bowed.

            “I think Cas has been trying to get rid of me for years,” Dean says into his hands. “Ha. Wouldn’t be surprised. I used to think different, but lately I think he only sticks ‘round because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

            “Dean,” Castiel says in shock, “how could you think that?”

            “’m a fucking mess,” Dean continues in a slow mumble. “’m a fucking _mess_ without him here.”

            Castiel grows very still at these words, at the raw confession of them, and makes no sound for many moments, trying to digest what Dean’s saying, what he _means._

Dean…needs him. Not as a weapon or…or a guardian, but…as a person. Castiel is still trying to wrap his head around this, around the human context of the word “need”, replaying Dean’s words over and over again until they’re imprinted, when Dean stands up with a slight stumble.

            “Where are you going?” Castiel demands, shooting to his paws.

            Dean seems to recognize the question in Castiel’s meow and says, “I’m gonna get laid, Kash,” and yanks his jacket from off the bed.

            Something nasty and horrible stirs in Castiel’s stomach at these words. The thought that Dean, someone so broken and loving and _good_ , is going out there and offering his body up to the first nameless woman that comes along simply for a distraction makes Castiel physically ill. It’s not _right._ Dean deserves to be taken care of, to be worshipped, comforted, loved.

            “No,” Castiel protests, bounding forward and snagging Dean’s sleeve with his teeth.

            Dean looks down in slow surprise at Castiel latched onto his jacket-cuff before he glares and jerks his arm in a weak attempt to shake Castiel loose. “Get the fuck off me.”

            Castiel clamps his jaw and tugs harder, urging him to sit down, but Dean snarls, “I said get the fuck _off,_ ” and yanks his arm so viciously that he sends Castiel flying straight into the headboard with a loud, resounding thud. Pain explodes in Castiel’s skull and for a moment, he sees a white burst, like the inside of a star.

            He slips down onto the pillow, numb with hurt and dizziness, and dazedly watches Dean slip into his shoes, grab his jacket and leave without even a glance backward.

            Castiel stares after him for many moments with sharp pain still throbbing in his skull, trying very hard not to imagine Dean sidling up to some skimpily-dressed woman with that easy smile that Castiel sees right through, that broken quirk of his mouth that eclipses years of self-worthlessness and broken promises. He thinks of Dean leading the woman to the Impala, laying her down, unpeeling her clothes slowly…

            The image makes something sharp and unpleasant stab in Castiel’s belly, separate from the dull pain panging in his head. It’s a mixture, Castiel thinks, of despair and jealousy.

            _You deserve more,_ Castiel thinks sadly. _You deserve to be saved._

            He has nothing more to do, so he falls asleep with a soft ringing in his ears.

\--

            “Dean, what the hell did you _do_ to him?” are Castiel’s waking words, and he hisses with his eyes still shut as long fingers probe a tender bump on his skull.

            “I just, I—” Dean says defensively, and he sounds sober so Castiel realizes it must be morning.

            Blearily, he cracks open his eyes and sees Sam staring down at him in wide-eyed concern, mingled with anger, presumably toward Dean.

            “I can’t even believe you, Dean,” Sam says in a deathly quiet voice. “You fucking threw him into a headboard. You realize that’s _animal abuse?_ ”

            “I didn’t mean to!” Dean says with something just short of panic in his voice. “I didn’t mean to, alright!”

            “Yeah, you know who else didn’t _mean_ to do that kinda shit?” Sam says. “Dad.”

            Castiel can practically _feel_ the cold front sweep through the room. “Fuck you, Sam.”

            “Yeah, Dean. _Dad_ got violent when he was drunk. Now there’s a kitten laying here with a goose-egg the size of Canada on its head and you’re telling me you didn’t _mean_ to?”

            “Don’t you dare compare me to him,” Dean says, voice soft with controlled rage. “When have I _ever_ laid a finger on you other than when we were fighting and you deserved it? Don’t you _dare_ compare me to him.”

            “Whatever, Dean.” Sam scoops Castiel into his hands gently, and Castiel, through his half-slitted eyes, catches Dean staring at him, eyes wide with anger, guilt, and, Castiel suspects, self-hatred.

            Sam examines him gently, clinically while Castiel lays obediently still and tries to ignore the feeling of Dean’s gaze burning into him. He’s still upset with Dean—throwing him into a wooden headboard is probably the most prioritizing reason—but also Dean’s refusal to see worth in himself, despite Castiel telling him for years the contrary. It angers Castiel on a resounding level, even he knows Dean can’t really help it.

            “No other bumps; looks like he took the impact on his head.” Sam shoots Dean a nasty look. “I’m going to check out. Have your stuff ready by the time I get back.”

            “Don’t fucking parent me,” Dean snaps after Sam’s back, and Sam’s broad shoulder twitches but he otherwise ignores his brother and steps out into the hallway with a firm click of the door behind him.

            Castiel nestles into the folds of the comforter and watches Dean’s stiff, uncomfortable movements as he packs up his things. Finally, after moments of cursing and rooting around, Dean glances over at him and takes a deep breath before sauntering over and sitting next to Castiel to place a hand on him.

            Castiel skitters away from him, for the first time uneasy to be touched by Dean. Something about last night’s incident had badly shaken him, maybe on an instinctual, animalistic level, where his senses warn him that Dean is dangerous and capable of hurting him again.

            Dean frowns and reaches out to pet Castiel again, but Castiel shies away from his hand uncomfortably, squirming out of reach.

            Dean withdraws his hand, his eyebrows creased with hurt and his eyes wide. “Come on, Kash, don’t be like that.”

            Castiel scoots further away from Dean until he’s perched on the pillow out of arm’s reach.

            “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Dean says in an almost pleading voice, as if he thinks Castiel can understand him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, or anything like that, alright? I know you probably hate me and you’ll think I’m an abusive bastard for the rest of your time with us, but…” Dean runs a quick hand through his hair and laughs shortly, self-consciously. “Wow. Here I am, talking to a fucking cat as if it understands me. Pathetic.”

            Castiel tilts his head and meows, which draws Dean’s attention. His eyes soften upon resting on Castiel, something like recognition stirring there.

            “You do remind me of him,” Dean says quietly, sadly. “Stupid head-tilt and all.” He ducks his head. “Dumb bastard.”

            Castiel wants to scream, to make Dean understand that he’s _right here,_ no more than two feet away, but that’s gotten him absolutely nowhere in the past, so he seals his mouth shut and settles for padding over to Dean’s side and grudgingly butting his head into Dean’s thigh, ignoring the throb of pain that the action causes.

            “You forgive me, then?” Dean asks, tentatively carding his fingers through Castiel’s soft fur.

            Castiel rubs his cheek on Dean’s jean leg in a distinctly uncharacteristic, cat-like moment of affirmation.

            “Sweet,” Dean says. “I am sorry, though. I never meant to, y’know. Barely even remember it, actually. I have a tendency to break everything I touch, anyway.” Dean’s voice drops into a plaintive murmur, so glum that Castiel out of pure exasperation digs the claws of his right paw into Dean’s leg.

            “Hey, _ouch!_ ” Dean snaps, jerking away. “What was that for?”

            Castiel rolls his shoulders with a soft huff and leaps off the bed, punctuating the moment Sam re-enters the room.

            “Did you apologize?” Sam asks almost teasingly, as if trying to dissipate the tension from earlier, and Dean picks up on this with something like relief and answers, with feigned smugness, “I’m still his favorite.”

            “Yeah.” Sam snorts. “Profound bond and whatnot.”

            Dean goes curiously stiff at this and gives Sam an odd, long look.

            “Come on,” Sam says, either unaware of or ignoring Dean’s glance in his direction. “Let’s hit the road. I’ll drive.”

\--

            Dean’s been thinking.

            Sam’s clearly excited on the drive; his movements twitchy, his eyes a little brighter, because they think they know where Dorma and her hell-bitch are staying and it’s a step closer to finding Cas. Dean should be excited too, which he is—there’s always that prospect of the hunt, the stirring nervousness and anticipation of gutting monsters, the sugar-sweet victory in the conviction that you’ve saved more people down the way. Plus he misses Cas like a motherfucker.

            But Dean’s been thinking about the cat.

            Kash is asleep, curled up in Dean’s lap and his tiny flank rapidly falling with his breath, and he’s purring quietly under Dean’s slow strokes along his back. Dean doesn’t want to broach the subject, especially with Kash so content and trusting again, but he knows he has to.

            “Sam,” Dean says about an hour into the drive. “I think we should give up the cat.”

            Sam almost jerks the car in surprise. “Wh-what?”

            “Yeah,” Dean says with a dry swallow, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and not on Sam’s appalled expression.

            “Dean,” Sam says, clearly struggling for words, “um, why? What made you change your mind?”

            “You know what changed my mind,” Dean says, his gaze finally cutting to meet Sam’s, where he’s very obviously not focused on the road. “You were right. I _abused_ him. This?” Dean points down at the visible bump on the crown of Kash’s head. “I did that. I’m no better than the asshole I was afraid of him getting stuck with. We’re not good for him. He deserves an owner that’ll treat him right, a steady home, not this on-the-road crap. He hates being in the car, anyway, you can tell.”

            “Dean, I get it, you feel bad, all right?” Sam says, tearing his eyes from Dean and focusing on the road again. “But…you _love_ that thing, and—”

            “I don’t love it.” Dean sneezes, as if to underscore his point.

            “You totally do. You adore Kash; he makes you a little bit happier with the job, right?”

            Dean shrugs. He and Sam had never had pets growing up—they’d traveled too much for that, and John practically hated animals other than dogs—so yeah, he’d concede that there was something consoling about having a constant companion after long hunts.

            “If he makes you happier, you should keep him,” Sam says firmly, fastening his other hand on the wheel.

            “Sam, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s best for the cat, alright? He deserves, y’know, to be put in frilly bows and be called Mr. Snuggles by some five-year-old who loves the shit out of him. He’ll probably end up getting killed out here. Besides, we’re a day’s drive from Dorma and we’re not stopping at a motel. He’ll either get in the way or get stuck in the car—who knows, maybe the bitch will kill us and he’ll die stuck in the Impala if we don’t come back. I’m putting my foot down on this, Sam. We’re turning off at the next shelter.”

            Sam opens his mouth to protest then locks his jaw with an audible click; he thinks over Dean’s words for a moment before reluctantly nodding. “Yeah, fine. Okay. You’re right. But…”

            “It’s fine, Sam,” Dean says. “Besides, we’ll have Cas back soon anyway. Cas probably hates cats.”

            “Dean, Cas loves cats.”

            Dean doesn’t need another reason for the cat to stay, so he glares at Sam until he clearly feels uncomfortable.

            “Sorry.”

            “Whatever.” Dean flattens his palm over Kash’s head, careful to avoid the small bump that _he_ had caused. _He_ had done that, to an innocent and defenseless creature. Is there nothing that he won’t ruin?

            Dean fiddles with the GPS on his phone until he locates an animal shelter called Homeland Rescue 30 miles down the way. He directs Sam with a strange aching feeling, ignoring the pang of wrongness in his chest.

\--

            Castiel is disoriented when he awakes to the lilting jolt of Dean’s steps and a loud cacophony of barking. A strange scent floods the roof of his mouth; feces, cleaning supplies, fear, _animal_.

            Castiel scrambles to regain his footing, alarmed at the sudden change in setting, but Dean holds him close and anchored to his chest so that all Castiel can do is squirm and swivel his head. He feels a hot flash of panic when he recognizes his surroundings.

            He’s in an animal shelter, and Dean’s in line for the front desk.

            “Dean,” Castiel says, panicking, “Dean, _no,_ you can’t do this!”

            “Quiet down, Kash,” Dean mutters as people in line turn to stare quizzically.

            Castiel thrashes, digging his claws into Dean’s chest so that Dean hisses in pained protest.

            “Kash, I said cut it _out_ ,” Dean says angrily, and Castiel glances up to see Dean glaring down at him in admonishment.

            “Why are you doing this?” Castiel asks, his eyes wide, but Dean ignores him and shifts him closer to his jacket pocket with one hand. The other is clutching his duffel.

            Leaving. Sam and Dean are _leaving_ him here, with a bunch of strange animals. Castiel knows how this goes; he’s young so he’ll get picked up by a family within the week, a family that lives God-knows-where. He’ll stay stuck a cat forever, with a random family that gives him shots and feeds him posh cat food, completely helpless to get back to the Winchesters.

            Is this the way it’s supposed to end?

            “Hi,” Dean says politely when he steps up to speak to the receptionist. “I’m here to put a cat up for adoption.”

            “Sure thing,” the receptionist says warmly, and holds out her hands to take him. “Let me see him for a second.”

            Castiel squirms desperately, clinging onto Dean’s familiar flannel shirt with his claws, but Dean hisses, “ _Behave,_ ” and unpeels Castiel from his chest.

            “Doesn’t seem very eager to leave you,” the receptionist says as she takes him, and Castiel tries with all his will not to struggle. Her hands are bony, cold, and smell unfamiliarly like dispenser soap. “You’ll need to fill out some paperwork. Verify that he’s gotten shots and such.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, his eyes trained sadly on Castiel. Castiel stares back with a begging entreaty in his eyes, but Dean drops his gaze to the paperwork the receptionist puts in front of him.

            “Can I ask where you found him?” the receptionist asks, and Castiel shudders as her cold hands rake down his back.

            “Um,” Dean says absently, chewing on the end of the pen as his eyes skim the papers. “We found him on the side of the road in Wichita.”

            “Okay,” the receptionist says, seeming to take note. “And what is your reason for leaving him?”

            “We’re on the road a lot,” Dean says, looking up with a sad smile. “No life for a cat, you know? We wanted to give him a good home.”

            “Understandable,” the receptionist replies with a sage nod. “Well, don’t you worry your pretty head. I have a feeling this kitty will find a home within the next few days, at the current adoption rates. He’s an adorable little thing and he looks like he’s in perfect condition if there are no other issues.” Castiel notices the receptionist frown, and he winces as she presses her long-nailed fingers onto the bump on his head. “Ooh, where’d he pick this up?”

            “Little dork ran into a table,” Dean says with such believable affection that something in Castiel clenches.

            “I see,” the receptionist says. “Well, let me just put him in the carrier while I help you fill out the rest of this nonsense.”

            Castiel yowls as the receptionist bends to put him in a small kennel, and she says in a fussy voice, “Oh hush,” as she shoves him inside and locks the door behind her.

            Castiel crowds up against the gate, watching the top of Dean’s head as he asks, “Um, what do I put if I don’t know how old he is?”

            Castiel’s not a normal cat. He’s a _human_ cat. Kind of. He can figure his way out of a damn kennel.

            Fortunately, the gaps in the kennel are wide—possibly made for a small dog rather than a cat—and Castiel slips a small paw through the gap and curls it around to grapple with the latch. It’s considerably more difficult without opposable thumbs, and he watches the receptionist with fastidious attention as she helps Dean, but she doesn’t turn to look at him once.

            With a soft, triumphant thought of, _Yes!_ Castiel’s paw curls around the lock and tugs it sideways so that the latch comes loose with a small pop. He slinks out, his heart racing as he gazes up at the receptionist, but she’s still leaned over and helping Dean a little too closely. She’s probably attracted to him. Most people are, Castiel thinks.

            Castiel softly pushes the door shut with his back leg and slips through the gateway to the other side of the desk. He’s right by Dean’s feet now, and if Dean were to look down for even a second—

            Castiel spies his escape with a sharp stab of relief; Dean’s duffel lays with the flaps open by Dean’s boots, and Castiel clambers inside and nestles down to the bottom, underneath Dean’s old shirts and boxers. He breathes in the familiar, musky scent as his tiny heart beats a rapid tattoo against his skin, praying to anyone still in heaven that neither Dean nor the receptionist will notice his absence.

            “Alright, Mr. Plant, that should be all,” the receptionist says brightly after a few moments of Castiel waiting with bated breath. “We’ll make sure Kash finds a good home.”

            “Thank you, ma’am,” Dean says, and stoops to pick up the duffel. Castiel is jostled uncomfortably with the bag hitting the side of Dean’s leg, and he’s still thrumming with panic and adrenaline, but he doesn’t hear any alarm bells; just the receptionist calling, “Yes, ma’am, I can help you next!”

            “Everything good?” Castiel hears Sam ask as Dean opens the car door and dumps his duffel in the backseat. Castiel lets out a soft huff of discomfort and stays very still until he’s sure Dean’s positioned in the front seat again; he then squirms to find a more comfortable position, as one of Dean’s buttons is digging into his ribcage.

            “Yeah, everything’s good. Lady said she should have a home for him within the next couple of days.” Dean sounds…upset.

            “Well, that’s good, at least. That’s what you wanted, right?”

            Dean doesn’t say anything.

            “You did the right thing, Dean,” Sam says, and starts the car.

\--

            They park the Impala two blocks away from the Sevilla Apartment Complex—she’s not exactly an inconspicuous ride—and pack up their bags, glancing around warily every few moments. Dorma should have no idea they’re coming, at least for a few more days, but it never hurts to be wary.

            “We can stay the night if we need to in one of the empty apartments,” Sam tells Dean, and Dean nods and grabs his duffel from the backseat, throwing in another gun and some other supplies just to be safe. Sam picks up his bag, shuts the trunk, and the two set off with suspicious glances at the innocuous, quaint houses that line the sides of the streets. It’s a nice area, Dean thinks, for California. In another life, maybe Sam would’ve bought one of these houses with Jess after finishing up at Stanford. Maybe he would’ve married and had kids, two gangly things that played stickball in the front yard. Had a dog, or a cat. A kitten.

            Dean’s not thinking about Kash. Not thinking of Kash alone and scared in a place he’s never been, locked up and waiting to be shipped off to another apple-pie family with a big white picket fence and plastic covers on their couches. He’s not thinking of how strange it’ll be sleeping without the little furball by his side, even if Kash had only been with them for a couple of weeks.

            He takes a deep breath and shakes his head in disgust. He’s getting emotional over a fucking cat. He doesn’t even like cats! They’re creepy and selfish and they cough up hairballs. It’s not his fault he’d had some weird psychological connection to the thing, maybe because of its resemblance to Cas.

            “Dean,” Sam says in a distant voice, as if through a tunnel. “You with me?”

            “Yeah,” Dean says, sharpening his focus and following Sam around the back of the apartment complex.

            “I don’t think she’ll be here,” Sam mutters. He pauses at the back door and looks around surreptitiously as he leans to pick the lock. “But that was the mistake Cas made.”

            “Do you think he’s in there right now?” Dean asks, and his stomach flips to think of Cas tied up somewhere, bleeding or hurt.

            “Hard to say,” Sam says with a grim flick of his mouth as the lock gives. “He could be anywhere, Dean.”

            Dean nods, and thinks, _Cas, we’re coming,_ before remembering Cas doesn’t do prayers anymore. He’s just as mortal as Dean and just as easily disposed.

            Dean tries very hard not to think of that fact, tries very hard not to imagine Cas lying dead somewhere in a pool of his own blood. Would Cas have cried out for Dean as he died, a call for help he knew wouldn’t be answered?

            “Dean,” Sam hisses, nudging him forward. “ _Focus._ ”

            “Right, yeah,” Dean says, and follows after Sam. Sam searches the bottom floor, but all the apartment doors have names and addresses outside them, indicating some sort of residence. Sam motions to Dean and heads up the stairs; Dean clambers up after him, keeping his footfalls soft.

            “This one’s open,” Sam calls quietly from down the hall, and crouches to pick the lock again.

            Dean’s in the process of heading over when the lock clicks and Sam pushes the door ajar. No sooner is the door open that Sam receives a kick to the face and he falls back with a sharp cry of surprise and pain, clutching his bleeding forehead. Dean drops his duffel on the spot and races forward, instincts screaming _Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,_ his adrenaline spiking and a gun in hand.

            “Oh, boys, boys,” Dorma says with a sigh, draping herself against the doorframe and lazily watching Sam struggle to his feet. “When will any of you ever learn?”

            Dean raises his gun lightning-quick and aims, finger on the trigger, but Dorma tightens her fist and the gun goes flying.

            At Dean’s look of shock, Dorma smiles smugly and says, “Oh yes, Dean, I’ve been very naughty.”

            “Demon-work?” Dean guesses with a curl of his lip, the extra gun tucked inside his boot suddenly itching to be grabbed. “To make you more powerful? Sweetheart, let me tell you that path doesn’t ever end in a silver lining.”

            “You think I don’t know that?” Dorma asks, arching her eyebrow and quickly kicking Sam’s dropped gun out of his grasping reach. “We’re all going to hell, Dean. Might as well make the most of it.”

            Dean balls his fists, feeling the bite of his nails cutting into his palms. “What’ve you done with Cas?”

            “Who?” Dorma asks, feigning ignorance.

            “ _Cas,_ you bitch,” Dean says, grinding his teeth. “Where is he?”

            “Ohh,” Dorma replies with an ugly simper, her eyes flashing. “Your post-angel lover. Yeah, he’s a bit indisposed at the moment.”

            “What’ve you done with him?” Dean shouts, taking a furious step forward, and Dorma holds up a hand menacingly in a silent reminder of her power. Dean halts, grits his teeth again. Fucking _witches._

“Cas isn’t here,” Dorma says in a saccharine voice. “Last my reports checked, you ditched him a while ago.”

            “The fuck are you talking about?”

            “Are you really so _blind,_ Dean?” Dorma sighs and turns to stare with a martyred expression down at Sam. “And you too? My, my, your reputations flatter you.”

            Dean reaches down and yanks the hidden gun out, aiming sharply and pulling the trigger, but Dorma’s faster; quicker than a blink, her hand comes up and sends the gun spinning out of reach and the shot bullet ricocheting against one of the apartment walls.

            “Dean,” Dorma says, a red lip curling to reveal one of her incisors and her gaze darkening with a first true hint of anger. “You’re starting to piss me off. And you know what I do with people who piss me off?”

            “Send gift-baskets?” Dean snaps, and Dorma smiles, as if in genuine amusement.

            “Pookie,” she calls out in that same sugary voice, a voice that reminds him chillingly of Lilith, and a low, resonating growl answers her call. Dean feels all the blood drain from his face as familiar Bloodhound saunters out into the hallway, drool drizzling from his jowls and his eyes dark and vicious on Dean.

            “I believe this will be somewhat like déjà vu for you,” Dorma says, and Sam shouts, “ _No!_ ” and dives for the gun, but Dorma breaks his hand with a swift crunch of her heel and leaves Sam wheezing in pain.

            “Kill, Pookie,” Dorma commands, and Dean’s closing his eyes, bracing for the attack, for the familiar slice of claws into his skin, cracking his ribs like turkey legs, when a flash of dark fur catches his attention.

            Pookie rears back on his hind legs with a long howl of rage, and Dean realizes with a jolt of shock that Kash is clinging to the dog’s skull, all his dark fur puffed out and his claws sunk in to their roots. With a loud hiss, Kash relocates his paw to Pookie’s eye and claws deep, and Pookie yowls with pain, splintering off into a choked whimper as blood spurts from his now-empty eye-socket.

            “ _Pookie!_ ” Dorma screams, jolting forward just as Dean yells in disbelief, “Kash!” but Pookie’s faster; with a quick, strong shake of his head, the dog dislodges Kash and sends him flying into a wall. Kash collapses but leaps up with a slight stumble, too dazed to gain his footing, and Dean shouts as Pookie surges forward and clamps his strong jaws around Kash with a sickening _crunch._

“ _No!_ ” Dean yells as Kash goes limp in Pookie’s jaws, and Dorma laughs and croons, “Pookie, drop it.”

            Pookie dutifully trots over to Dean, one eye still gushing dark rivulets of blood from Kash’s damage, and spits the kitten out at Dean’s feet, where he lies at an odd, broken angle.

            “Ooh, spine’s snapped, it looks like,” Dorma muses, dropping down with a pitying expression to fuss over Pookie’s damaged eye. “Possibly shattered. Don’t move, Sam. I can see you inching for your gun. I can snap your neck with a twitch of my fingers, so don’t test me.”

            Dean shoots a panicked, warning look at Sam— _don’t do anything stupid—_ and crouches down to examine Kash without releasing Dorma from his peripheral attention; the kitten’s unconscious, barely breathing, trickles of blood from Pookie’s teeth marks soaking into the carpet.

            “How the fuck did you even get here?” Dean mutters, almost angrily as he sweeps a hand down Kash’s familiar pelt. His hand comes away in a sheen of blood. _And why the hell would you do something like that?_

            “My God, Dean, you’re an idiot,” Dorma speaks from where she’s still tending to Pookie, dabbing at the blood in the folds of his face. “The thing quite literally jumped into the jaws of death for you and you’re _still_ missing it.”

            Dean stares at her for a long, uncomprehending moment, feeling like some sort of revelation is just in reach.

            Dorma rolls her eyes, snaps her fingers, and suddenly Kash is no longer Kash but a full-length, naked Cas, his back bent at a grotesque angle and blood gushing from clotted teeth marks on his abdomen.

            Sam lets out a strangled noise of shock and Dean feels all of the breath leave his body, like he’s been punched in the gut.

            “Shame the idiot didn’t keep himself at the animal shelter,” Dorma says. “After all, running with the Winchesters only gets you killed, doesn’t it?”

            Numb with shock, Dean slowly lowers his hand to card them through Cas’s dark hair, matted and chunked with blood. Cas doesn’t even stir at his touch.

            “It’s a shame, really,” Dorma says in a gloating voice from the doorway. “I really wanted to see him live. You know, the happily ever after and all that.”

            “You sick _bitch,_ ” Dean snarls, lurching upwards and placing one foot protectively in front of Cas, so that Cas is loosely locked between the breadth of his legs.

            Dorma gives Pookie a last stroke to the head and steps forward; Dean says, “Come closer to him and I’ll fucking kill you.”

            “My, my,” Dorma says all a-flutter, placing a hand melodramatically to her chest. “You sure do know how to make a girl swoon.”

            “Go to hell,” Dean says.

            “I can assure I’ll see you there,” Dorma replies, tipping her head with a twisted smile. “No angel to save you from the fire now, is there, Dean? Pookie—”

            Without preamble, Sam lunges for his gun with a grunt of strain and shoots the witch in the head.

            No shocked expression crosses Dorma’s slack face; she’s dead before she hits the ground, and Pookie howls out in agony and collapses on the spot in a tangle of fur and limbs. Is it a thing that companions die if the owner does? Dean can’t remember.

He doesn’t take time to triumph over Dorma’s death; he’s dropping down next to Cas, checking him for more injuries, fingers probing ribs. There’s an additional nasty gash on his hip, presumably from where Pookie had used him as a chew toy, and Dean sheds his flannel overshirt and presses it to the wound to staunch the blood-flow, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Cas’ back is literally _broken,_ possibly snapped in half—

            “Dude,” Sam says in quiet awe, cradling his shattered hand. “Cas was the cat the whole time. _The whole time_.”

            “Yeah, and right now, he’s dying, Sam,” Dean snaps. “Priorities?”

            Sam looks chastised and says, “Of course, yeah,” and comes over to examine Cas with a worried expression.

            Of course Dean’s still reeling a bit over the fact that Kash had been Cas for the last however many days—how much had Cas seen, heard that he wasn’t supposed to? Cas had slept in Dean’s bed every night, after all, and never would _that_ not be weird—but Dean figures he’ll mentally retrace his steps later.

Dean scoops Cas into his arms in a loose cradle, and Cas stirs enough to cry out in anguish at the pressure on his cracked spine. Dean murmurs fruitless words of consolation and barks to Sam, “Sam, call 911 now,” as he heads down the stairs as quickly and gently as he possibly can.

            “You stupid bastard,” Dean’s muttering over and over, “you _stupid_ bastard—” because how many others that Dean loves are going to take a bullet for him? Go to _hell_ for him?

            “Dean,” Cas mutters, his face scrunching up in agony, “Dean, don’t.”

            “What?” Dean asks urgently, tilting his head down to catch Cas’ words. “What, Cas?”

            “You deserved to be saved,” Cas insists in a nearly incoherent whisper, and passes out again.

            “ _Fuck_ you, Cas, those better not be your dying words or I swear to God I’ll reach beyond the veil and pull your stupid self-sacrificing ass back myself! _Cas!_ ”

            Dean can hear the distant, strident wail of approaching sirens, but he’s fixated on Cas’ pale, blood-streaked face, the tight, pained clenched of his eyelids and the ragged hiccup of his labored breathing.

            “Don’t die,” he whispers, knowing Cas can’t hear him, “please don’t leave me again,” and waits for the ambulance to come.

\--

            Castiel is floating.

            For a long time, he drifts in a syrupy sea of darkness; there’s no pain here, no sound or light. Every once in a while, a distressing sound or sensation will breach the bubble—sirens, frantic voices, the feeling of a hand clutching his like a vice, the fleeting brush of someone sweeping hair off his face—but the intrusions are unwelcome and disarming. He stays underwater, suspended in a curve of space, a nowhere-land.

            One time, in a particularly vivid instance, he hears Dean yell, “ _Cas!_ ” and a scuffle, or a struggle, and Sam’s voice in the mix. But Castiel slips back under into an ocean of soundlessness, of dark and warmth.

            At one point, he sees a soft, distant light, beating a soft, golden halo against the black. Blindly, Castiel moves toward it—he can _feel_ the warmth on his face, the divine joy, and for the first time since he fell, he feels the echo of his grace thrumming through him, sweeter than honey, familiar and warm.

            _Come,_ voices say, pouring light into Castiel’s limbs, through his veins, illuminating until he shines like the cosmos, _come,_ but there’s something anchoring him to the dark, restricting him from the light; a tight hand gripped on his, another’s pulse whispering against his skin, and he knows, somehow, that he can’t leave.

            _It’s not my time,_ he says sadly, and the light begins to ebb and flicker, leaving his veins flooded with ice and a wistful, bitter taste in his throat.

 _Soon,_ the voices say, warmly and invitingly, _soon, Castiel,_ and Castiel drifts.

\--

            Castiel comes to sometime later in a blinding white haze; he blinks open his eyes and the world seems to flood around him with bleary silhouettes of light, making him dizzy, and he groans. His throat is so parched that it hurts to make noise, and his lips are cracked and dry to an extent that’s nearly uncomfortable.

            “Easy there,” says a familiar voice next to him, and Castiel lolls his head sideways to see Dean grinning at him crookedly.

            “Dean,” Castiel croaks, reaching for him, but Dean stills him with a hand on a forearm and says, “Easy there, buddy. You were like practically comatose and you’re still in pretty bad shape.”

            Castiel dazedly stares at him, licks his split lips, then looks down at his hand, unbelievably relieved to see fingers and human skin.

            “Hands,” he murmurs weakly. “Thank God.”

            Dean laughs, to his surprise, almost giddily.

            “Got used to having paws, did you?”

            Castiel grimaces. “No.”

            “Do you, ah…” Dean rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head uncomfortably, a rose-pink flush highlighting his cheekbones. “Do you remember everything?”

            Castiel could lie. He could so easily lie and give Dean the answer he wants to hear—that no, Castiel remembers none of it, that it’s all a strange blur with just bits and pieces of being on the road and sleeping in motels.

            But the dishonesty in their relationship has been laid to bed. He answers, “Yes.”

            Dean nods as if he expected this, and says after a moment of silence, “I can’t remember everything I said, but, uh, hopefully I didn’t say anything to offend you, or anything. I probably didn’t mean it.”

            “Nothing more than I deserved,” Castiel says, then takes a deep, jagged breath and continues, “Dean, I’m sorry—”

            “Sorry for running in early and risking your life?” Dean shrugs. “You saved my life, Cas. Again. And when you were like, six inches tall. Consider it forgiven.” Dean’s eyes drift downward, guiltily. “You almost died trying to save my hide.”

            “How am I looking anyway?” Castiel asks, afraid to move. He knows that most back injuries don’t end happily; he’s scared to try to move his legs, terrified he won’t be able to.

            “Pretty damn good, all things considered,” Dean says with a grin, and Castiel stares before Dean backtracks in embarrassment and says in nearly a stammer, “O-oh, the spine. Yeah, um, the doc says it’s a miracle. You’re not dead or paralyzed, which would usually be the case if someone got their back chomped in half by Cerberus. You’ve got a few weeks and months of recovery, but you’re gonna be fine. Spine wasn’t snapped clean in half or anything, just fractured. They’re a little confused how a dog was big enough to break your spine with his teeth, though. I think they’re on lookout for a Dogzilla.”

            Castiel sighs with relief and tries hard not to think about the infuriating days ahead, where he’ll have to learn the most basic of human movement all over again.

            Dean is promptly ushered aside by a nurse who fusses over Castiel, fills his tubes, checks his vitals, writes down reports, grills Dean about when he’d woken. Dean answers as thoroughly as he can, his gaze not leaving Castiel, and Castiel remembers the light he’d felt in the darkness with a sudden clarity.

            “I think I had a near-death experience,” Castiel says suddenly, frowning.

            “Ya think?” Dean says sarcastically. “Was there a light at the end of the tunnel, did the warmth guide you onward?”

            His voice is teasing, but Castiel answers seriously, “Yes, as a matter of fact,” and Dean goes quiet.

            The nurse senses the two have an unspoken tension and leaves quickly after leaving Castiel a tray of unappetizing-looking food.

            “What was it like?” Dean asks, quietly.

            “There was a light, like you said and like cliché would lend us to believe, and I felt a warmth at the center of my being. My grace. It was like nothing I’ve ever felt before, Dean.” Castiel gently settles his head against the pillow, glancing up at the hospital lights wistfully. “I wanted to go. I wanted _so badly_ to go. I knew I would be taken care of if I went; that heaven waited for me. That there was no more pain, fear, sadness.”

            “Why did you stay?” Dean asks, clearing his throat, and Castiel glances over and realizes Dean’s eyes are glassy with emotion, very pointedly not fixed on him.

            Castiel knows his answer very clearly, but isn’t sure Dean would want to hear it, so he opts for, “It wasn’t my time. I’m needed here.”

            Dean gives a short, jerky nod. “Yeah, damn right you are.”

            Castiel smiles. Takes a deep breath. “Dean, you know that when you said…that I always leave you…you know I would never _intentionally_ abandon you, correct?”

            Dean shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, making a scratchy noise in his throat and jamming his hands in his pockets. “Um. You know, um. When I said that, I was kind of far gone, and—”

            “No,” Castiel says, gentle but firm. “You meant it. I can’t forgive myself for making you feel that way, even if it wasn’t my intent, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Dean.”

            Dean shrugs, a jerky twitch of his shoulder. “Forget it, Cas.”

            “No, I won’t forget it. I hurt you in more than one way in the crypt that day, and I didn’t even realize it.”

            “All’s forgiven, Cas, believe me.”

            Castiel nods to placate Dean, still at unease with the situation, but he recognizes Dean’s discomfort and changes the subject with, “Where’s Sam?”

            “Off getting food that isn’t shitty hospital toxic waste,” Dean says, seeming happy with the shift in topic. “He’ll be happy to see you awake.”

            “I’ll be glad to see him, too.” Castiel misses Sam, his earnesty and his kindness and his eternal understanding nature. Sam is an easy person to be around, which is more than can be said for Dean on some days, and Castiel appreciates Sam’s quiet presence, his steadiness and refreshing humility.

            “I was your favorite as the cat, right?” Dean asks, teasing again, and Castiel smiles at Dean’s attempt to make light of the situation.

            “I’m not choosing favorites.” Yes, Dean had been his favorite, although he wouldn’t say so to Sam.

            “What was it like? Y’know…”

            “There were parts of it that were enjoyable,” Castiel confesses. “Most of my body’s pleasures and dislikes were outside my control, though. Being petted was nice; car rides were not.”

            Dean’s smile drops, like a cloud passing in front of a sun. “Sorry we almost left you, man. If I’d have known…how the fuck did you get out, anyhow?”

            Castiel huffs and rolls his head sideways to eye Dean skeptically. “You think I can’t handle a simple kennel lock?”

            Dean grins.

            “I’m glad to be this species again,” Castiel concludes, and thinks it may be the first time he’s expressed pleasure at being human.

            “Yeah. You were a good cat, though. I’ll kinda miss having you around as a dark fuzzy thing.”

            “That sleeps in your bed,” Castiel says without opening his eyes, mainly to get a reaction out of Dean. He doesn’t usually stoop to such things as Sam does, but it’s sometimes hard to resist.

            Dean shuffles and laughs uncomfortably, clears his throat, laughs again. “Um, yeah—well, you know, that was _your_ prerogative—”

            “You were warm and comfortable and smelled good,” Castiel says with a shrug that sends a spike of pain down his body; the sensation is strangely muted, though, and the world’s beginning to go hazy again. “I liked sleeping with you. I liked sleeping with you a loooot.”

            Dean huffs out a soft noise of disbelief. “Huh. Never thought I’d see you drugged. I think the morphine’s starting to kick in.” He crosses to stand by Castiel again with a soft grin and takes a seat beside him.

            “Feels good,” Castiel mumbles, and he notices Dean freeze at that before he adds, more sharply, “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it—you can’t _rely_ on drugs, they’ll fuck you up, Cas—”

            “I know, Dean,” Castiel says in a slurred voice. “Stop talking.”

            Dean sighs, a quiet, affectionate hush of breath, and he fondly ruffles his hand through Castiel’s hair, quick enough to be playful and slow enough to be tender. It feels a lot like being petted.

            “Go to sleep, Cas.”

            “Don’t leave me,” Castiel says, a wave of panic breaking through the tranquil fog of the drugs. “Don’t leave me, Dean, I need you. With me.”

            Dean’s breath catches at that but Castiel hardly notices; he’s already slipping away when he hears Dean say, “I’ll be here when you wake up, Cas. Don’t worry, okay?” and Castiel sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, so let me know if you catch any mistakes! Disclaimer: I by no means condone "bitch" being frequently applied to female characters (it actually really rubs me the wrong way), but given it was the most accurate characterization of Dean based on the canon, I went with that. Sorry if I offended anyone! (Title is from Fall Out Boy's "Death Valley.")


End file.
